Intelligent Lust
by catholicorprotestant
Summary: Teacher by day, bartender by night, Francis Bonnefoy never expected to have a haggard Brit walk into his bar and change everything he knew about the world. Arthur Kirkland wasn't sure what he was looking for when he moved an ocean away, but he never expected to find it in just this way. An installment of the Unexpect Series. FrUK. Multichapter.
1. Chapter 1

**So here's another installation of the Unexpected Series. So far, I'm planning this fic to only have one part. There's a little angst, but nothing over the top. I'm dealing with a lot, so I'm not making any promises on how often I'll be able to update, but I will finish. I promise. If it ever takes too long, feel free to message me. I really hope y'all enjoy it. :)**

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Francis wiped the bar, his eyes drifting to the blonde man at the end of the bar chugging beers like his life depended on it. He had never seen the man before, but something told him he should go talk to him. Other customers always volunteered their sob story to him, but this one…this one was tough. He'd just bark at Francis for another beer. It wasn't like he had a problem with not being told, but one thing he loved about his job was that he always got to hear people's stories. He felt like a therapist.

Francis studied the man. He had a small frame, but was tall and slender. His blonde hair reminded Francis of daffodils. His green eyes were like emeralds that shimmered in the light. The man's features screamed that he was in a rough patch. His shoulders were slumped when he came in and he was rather snappy. He kept his eyes down and kept sighing, forlorn. Currently he had his head buried in his arm dirtying up the counter. He was playing with his empty cup, his eyes staring through it at nothing in particular.

The Frenchman sighed and threw the towel over his shoulder and walked over to this mysterious new customer. He didn't have anything better to do. His other customers were buying drinks to talk to girls. A group of friends were playing pool in the corner, another playing darts. Nobody was being particularly interesting. He had a few regulars sitting at the bar talking with each other.

"Can I get you another beer?" Francis asked, leaning on the counter with a charming smile.

The man looked up and blinked as though startled by the sudden interruption. He nearly fell off his bench as he straightened up. His eyes took a few moments to adjust and focus on Francis, who was smirking at him.

"On second thought, I might have to cut you off there," Francis frowned, standing up and folding his arms.

"What? No. You don't tell me when I've had enough! I tell you when I've had enough. Now take my damn money and do your fucking job," the man snapped in an unmistakable English accent.

Francis sighed and took the cup off the counter before filling it up. He got so tired of people barking at him as though he was the root of all their problems. He was a bartender! It wasn't his fault that they had some stupid problem going on his their life. He had plenty of problems himself and he was still managing to stay pleasant, thank you very much. Between parent teacher conferences, getting yelled at by his boss, and the shitty salary he was paid, he had to have a second job to be able to just get by. He wasn't treating people poorly. He was not about to have some English snob yelling at him.

"Here you are, mon ami!" Francis smiled politely as he set the beer on the counter.

"Thank you. Don't speak that shit around me."

"You seem like something is bothering you. Would you like to talk about it? I am a barkeep after all. We're practically therapists," Francis said cheerfully, ignoring the man's comment. "I've got until three in the morning."

"Why would I want to talk to you? I don't even know you," the Englishman glared.

"Which is why it's perfect to talk to me! I'm an unbiased ear to rant to. It's part of my job description." Francis said as he cleaned a glass.

He glanced up to see the man downing the beer. Francis could not figure this guy out. Why was he refusing to talk? Everyone talked to him! He was charming and kind and sensual if that's what his customer needed. This man was so tight lipped. Was it a breakup? He looked for a tan line on the man's ring finger. When he didn't see one he knew it wasn't a divorce at least. One clue. The man didn't looked like the corporate jerks who came in bitching about their boring job and their terrible boss. It was hard to figure out what this man did. He was dressed like an old man.

"I just…I work for a year on that damned novel and what do I get? What? I get told I need to change the whole bloody thing! Those blokes at the publisher know nothing about good literature! More accessible, they say! I'm sorry that I actually have a full command of the English language. If there are some idiots who don't understand my words, then they can buy a bloody dictionary!"

Francis stared at the man, surprised he had opened up so suddenly. He had almost accepted that he would never get any information from this man. He put down the glass he was cleaning, tossing the rag aside and leaning on the counter to show that he was interested in what his customer had to say.

"What do you do?" Francis asked, narrowing his eyes.

The man stared at the bartender as though he were the dumbest person on the face of planet. He opened his mouth to say something before shaking his head and taking another gulp of his beer. He slumped back down into his arms.

"I am a writer and it seems as though people such as yourself have no interest in the art of literature. They want me to change my novel! A year of my life went into that fiction! I loved that book! And those arseholes are just totally illerate I suppose. Ugh, why did I had decide to move here? My beautiful language is so butchered and ignored in this godforsaken country."

"Who turned down your novel and why?" Francis asked. He knew the answer, but he wanted to press the conversation.

"Those bastards down at the publisher! God, it's like you've not been listening to me!"

"Well to be fair, sir, I was busy cleaning a cup when you decided to share your story with me with zero warning," Francis smirked raising his eyebrows, standing up with his arms across his chest.

"Yes, yes, I suppose you are right. Forgive me. It just seems so damned cliche to spill my troubles to a bartender who I've only just met in a bar full of vagrants. I'm not a cliche person. I…I…My glass is empty," his voice sounding like a child who dropped his ice cream.

"Let me fill it up for you. You better be careful. I'm supposed to cut you off once you're drunk, but I have the feeling you're not done with telling me your story."

"No, I suppose I am not. What is your name?"

"Francis," the Frenchman said with a small wink. "And you might be…?"

"Arthur."

The men were silent for a moment. Francis admired Arthur with a soft expression. This man was very nice to look at. Arthur was tapping on the glass and put it down with a sigh. He rested his arms on the table looking Francis in the eye as he sat up straight. He looked so much nicer when he was looking confident.

"Tell me, Francis, do you read?"

"Of course."

"I mean really read. I'm talking about classics, Dickens, Hemingway, Poe, Chaucer, Faulkner?" Arthur stared almost desperately at him.

"Well, I…yes," Francis humored the man.

"Nobody does anymore and it just kills me," he said bitterly as the stared at the amber liquid in his cup before whispering, "They called me pretentious."

"You, pretentious!" Francis gasped, a hand flying to his chest.

"Oh, hush! You don't even know me! I'm Arthur Kirkland! I am an author of exactly five novels that are on the bestseller list in the UK. I have done book signings for people who really care for literature! And I come here after my sister persuaded me that I should branch out. I think she's wrong. This country is full of idiots who would rather watch a movie," he hissed bitterly.

"To be fair, I'm sure that there are people here who would enjoy your work. And I'm sure that here are people in the UK who would rather watch a movie."

"Shut it! You're French! What do you know?"

"Enough to know that you are a prideful, arrogant Brit who can not take criticism."

"Don't flatter yourself, frog. That was criticism! It was murder, though you wouldn't know as you were not there. They took my manuscript and marked all over it. They told me it was contrived and pretentious and only the elderly could enjoy how dry my writing is. Do you know what that is like? But you're just a bartender," Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Well is it?" Francis asked turning around to pour a scotch for a regular.

"Beg pardon?"

"Is you writing dry? Is your wording pretentious? Do you try so hard to be great that you make you work contrived?"

"I…I…what?"

"You have to be honest with yourself if you'd like to get any better. You know a great artist doesn't have to try so hard. They just do their art, let their soul come out. Are you doing that? Or are you too busy being dry and pretentious?"

"I'll have you know I studied at Oxford."

"And that's great, but I'm sure you already knew how to write before you went to your university. You learned writing styles and fancy vocabulary, but you don't learn to be an author. It has to be in you. You have pour your guts out on the paper."

"You don't understand!" Arthur slammed a hand on the counter, his eyes flashing dangerously. "They want me to make my book into some sappy teen romance! They want me to make another horrendous vampire novel. I'm sorry, but I have originality! I do put myself in my work, but I want be fanciful, you know?"

"You're trying too hard, Arthur."

"Piss off," Arthur mumbled.

Arthur stood up and stumbled over himself. He steadied himself on the bench and shook his head as though that was going to rid the alcohol from his system. He picked up his keys and wallet from the table.

"How much do I owe?" he slurred, swaying.

Francis laughed and shook his head. He'd been working as a bartender since he was eighteen, but never had he seen someone trying so hard not to be drunk. Arthur did look especially cute as he stood leaning on the counter attempting to be poised.

"Let me call you a cab. You're too drunk to drive and walking in this state, you're likely to get robbed or arrested," Francis told him, motioning for him to sit. "You owe fifty dollars."

"I'm fine. I can hold my liquor better than anyone in this bloody place."

"Sit."

Francis made it clear there was no arguing. He ordered the taxi, happy to hear there was one already outside. Francis grabbed a black sharpie from his apron and grabbed Arthur's arm.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Arthur snapped, attempting to pull his arm away. Francis gave him a look that shut him up.

"In case you get lost, you have someone to call."

The Frenchman pushed the man's sleeve up and wrote: If lost, call Francis Bonnefoy along with his phone number. Francis winked at Arthur, bidding him adieu. He leaned on the counter as he watched the man walk out. There was something about that English author that he could not put his finger on. He was fiery and pretentious and a bit of an asshole, but Francis had never enjoyed talking to someone more in his life.

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 **Well there you are. I do have the second chapter finished already. I hope you enjoyed it.**

 **Please review.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all for the reviews last chapter! The really warmed my heart. I've got so much planned for this fic. I'm really hoping to be updating regularly as these chapters probably aren't going to be as long as my spamano installments. If I don't update for a bit, just send me a message. :)**

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Arthur rolled out of bed, groaning as the light hit his eyes. the man's body was taking it's revenge on him in the form of a hangover. His head was spinning and his stomach was sour from the previous evening's binge drinking. He pulled the curtains closed and went to the bathroom. It was then that he noticed something written on his arm.  
"If lost called Francis Bonnefoy?" he read to himself in confused tone as his eyes scanned over the phone number on his arm. "Who the hell is Francis Bonnefoy and just why did he write on my arm?" Arthur muttered to himself.  
He shrugged. It didn't really matter who this Francis was. He wasn't lost, now was he? No, he was safely in his home with a raging hangover. The name sounded French anyhow. He was not one to give a second thought to those stuck up jerks. It wasn't important.  
He ran his arm under the warm water along with some soap and scrubbed. His eyes widened in horror as the black ink stayed stubbornly on the skin. He scrubbed harder eliciting a wave of dizziness and nausea. He rubbed his temples. He must be imagining things, he reassured himself. Of course the ink was off of him. Who would write on a stranger in permanent ink? He smirked to himself and rinsed the soap of his arm and hands before going back to his room to sleep off the hangover.  
When he awoke several hours later, he decided that it was best to combat the last of his hangover with something greasy. It had never made much sense to him why eating food that was arguably as terrible for one's health was a good cure for a hangover, but it was. The problem was that he was not in the mood to fix anything for himself. He would have to go out, but that required a shower.  
He peeled off his clothing from the day before, tossed it in his hamper and stepped into the shower. He allowed the warm water to wash over him, eyes closed. His mind drifted to a charming man with bright blue eyes that were much like the ocean. His slightly curled blonde hair being tucked away in a low ponytail as two locks of curls fell on either side of his face. A tall and slender man that didn't seem very athletic giving him a flirtatious smile that nobody had ever dared look at him with would not leave his mind. He had no idea who this man could be. He didn't remember ever seeing such a person.  
He brushed away the thoughts as he reached for shampoo and froze as he saw the words still scrawled in black ink on his left forearm. Was it? Could it be? Anger filled the Englishman. Just where the hell did that bloody frog get off? Not only had he infiltrated his thoughts with him in such a vulnerable state, but he had the nerve to write in permanent ink on such a sophisticated man's arm! The nerve! No matter, he thought to himself, once I am done here I shall give him a piece of my mind!  
Arthur quickly finished his shower, distracting his mind from the beautiful French bartender who had told he was trying too hard by coming up with a script to say when he finally called him. The man would not know what to say. Arthur Kirkland did have a way with words. Afterall, he was a bestselling author five times in a row. He continued his planning as he got out of the shower, dried himself and made his way to his room. He pulled on a heavy grey sweater and jeans before sliding on his shoes and heading out the door.  
He dialed this Bonnefoy's number, a devilish smirk dancing on his lips. Oh he was going to get it alright. He was going to-"  
"Hello?" a French accented voice purred.  
"Okay, listen up you bloody frog-" Arthur began.  
"Oh, Arthur! I see you found my number. Are you lost?" the man asked playfully.  
"What? No, I'm not lost! Just where do you get off writing your blasted number a man's arm, especially one of my level of sophistication and intelligence?"  
"I am really starting to see why those publishers called you pretentious."  
"What? I am not pretentious!" Arthur spat with all the fury that his bruised ego could muster up.  
"You are! You are the most arrogant person I have ever met! Arrogant people are pretentious by definition!"  
"I am not!"  
"You are! You think that you are so important because you're some hoity toity British novelist, but you're not, Arthur! You are too stubborn to realize that this may be putting a damper on you writing."  
"What do you know about literature? You are, after all, French," Arthur hissed, glaring as he walked.  
"As if that is supposed to mean something!" Francis cried.  
"It doesn't involve sex or getting drunk of shit wine! Therefore, you know nothing. Your opinion means nothing."  
"Look, Arthur, I'm sure you're a fantastic writer, but you are the most pretentious person to ever walk into the bar. You even dress the part!" Francis giggled.  
"I am done with this conversation!"  
Arthur hung up the phone as a satisfied smirk danced across his lips. He sure had showed him! Pretentious. He scoffed at the thought. That frog was probably wallowing in self pity with verbal beating he just received from the great Arthur Kirkland. He chuckled to himself. He did have such a way with words.  
The Englishman picked up some food and walked back to his apartment to eat it. He tried to watch television, curl up with tea and a good book. Hell he even tried to write, but he simply could not focus. His mind kept wandering to this Francis character. Why did he insist on violating his mind? Well, he supposed, that is what the French do isn't it? Violate? Since the jerk was insisting on being in his thoughts, he might as well go find him at the bar and give him another stern talking to! Two verbal assaults in one day? That would simply be too much for the Frenchman to handle!  
Arthur grabbed his keys, slipped on his shoes and walked toward the bar. There was going to be no stopping him. He was going to go in there and just start in on him. Never in his entire life had he wanted to argue with someone as much as that blood twat. A smirk played on Arthur's lips. He was not going to talk with him about the number, oh no. That would be too predictable. What should he bring up? Politics? No, too boring. Literature? Well obviously he didn't know literary geniuses when he saw them, so what would he know about that? No, he was going to yell at him about his clothes. He dressed far too extravagantly to work in a bar. Who dressed like that? Ugh, he would never understand the French.

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The door of the bar was flung open and in walked the grumpy blond. He made a beeline straight to where Francis was cleaning a mug with a smirk on his face. Francis had never seen someone so intent on getting a drink before in his life. He waited until Arthur sat down, slamming the table before speaking.  
"Oi! You, there, get me a whiskey and coke," Arthur demanded as he glared intensely at the Frenchman.  
"Bonjour, Arthur," Francis said in a bored tone. "I'm doing well today. Thank you so much for asking. You know, you really have the best people skills."  
"Shut up, you insufferable frog," Arthur spat throwing some money on the counter. "I do not wish to speak with you."  
"Very well, mon ami," Francis laughed as he mixed the drink.  
He set it down and watched out of the corner of his eye as Arthur sipped it as he kept an eye on Francis. The man rolled his eyes. This Englishman was a strange man. He would have felt sorry for him had he not been so intrigued by him. He seemed so complex and the obvious walls the man created to keep everyone out were tempting Francis to crush them. He wanted to see this man for who he was. Nobody that Francis had ever been so obviously coded.  
Francis glanced at Arthur, trying to read him. The man had barely touched his drink as he ran his finger absently up and down the cup. He would glance at Francis occasionally, though the one time they locked eyes Arthur's had widened for a brief moment before he scowled and huffed. The British man seemed different than yesterday. That night he had been so beaten down, but tonight his back was straight, good posture despite his hand resting on his hand. He was barely drinking. What was it with him?  
"So you bloody twat, where you do get off writing on strangers in permanent ink?" Arthur suddenly snapped, breaking Francis' thoughts.  
"I already told you, Arthur," Francis sighed as he rolled his eyes. "You were quite drunk and I was afraid that you wouldn't make it home. I wanted you to have someone to call in the event that you found yourself lost and nobody to call. We had a good conversation last night and you didn't protest...much," Francis' eyes flashed playfully as he spoke.  
"You realize I can't get it off, don't you?" Arthur accused.  
"What did you try with? It isn't hard," Francis rolled his eyes.  
"I took a bloody shower!"  
"Tsk, Arthur, bathing in blood does not actually do anything beneficial contrary to that myth that it preserves youth. Also don't tell people that. It's a bit frown upon here. People will think you're a psychopath! It is also not very effective in the removal of permanent marker," Francis laughed.  
"Why...you are the most annoying person I have ever met in my life! Are you making fun of the way I speak?"  
"Oh Arthur, you make fun of yourself! Now," he pulled out a first aid kit from under the bar and pulled out a few alcohol wipes, "this will do."  
Francis gently took Arthur's hand in his and pushed up the sleeve, tearing open a packet. He raised his eyebrows and giggled as Arthur ripped his hand away, cheeks red.  
"W-What do you think you're doing!?"  
"Do you want my name and number on your arm forever?"  
"Of course not! Why the hell would I want your disgust name and number blaring on my skin?"  
"Then let me clean your arm off," Francis smirked.  
"Ah, right. Very well then."  
Francis smiled and took his hand once more. He felt he had won something. He had finally managed to get this man to agree to something. He found it rather humorous how the man tried to act so dignified as his arms was being cleaned by a bartender. People were looking, but Arthur kept his posture perfect and his nose slightly in the air.

Arthur allowed Francis to clean his arm, watching all the while. How had he not thought of this sooner? Now here he was being humiliated by this vile man! He cursed himself for his slight blush earlier. He had been surprised. Nobody ever touched him. It was rude to touch one who was not open to it! They barely knew each other. He was sure that this disgusting Frenchman had taken his body's response as something disturbing. He shuddered at the thought.  
"Are you quite done?" Arthur glared.  
"Oui! There you are. My number has been erased for your sickly skin. I should have known better. I am far too gorgeous to even have my name written on anything less than perfect. You need some sun, Arthur. A tan would do you well."  
Arthur could have punched him. He had some nerve to insult him like that! He looked fine, thank you very much! The sun had harmful rays. If he wanted radiation pumped into his body, he would have gone to a nuclear plant. Maybe then he'd at least get superpowers. His skin was not sickly! He was preserving his youthful radiance.  
"I never! I'm sure that you're going to be covered in wrinkles. I'd rather keep the risk of melanoma low. Besides I don't want your hideous name and writing on me! And stop talking about me being pretentious when you're the most narcissistic person alive! I mean look at you! You are a bartender and you're dressed for a night on the town! It's so excessive! Have some modesty!"  
"What's wrong with the way I dress?" Francis gasped.  
"Nothing if you're going to a wedding. You dress like you have something to prove. It's so disgraceful. You walk around as if the earth revolves around you. Get a grip! You're not as attractive or important as you think."  
Francis gasped in shock. Arthur smirked, satisfied with himself and the fact that for once he'd gotten the man to shut up. It seemed that he had struck a nerve. Now he knew where to aim. He sat back happy that he had actually hurt this annoying, arrogant man.  
His blue eyes were not longer laughing and mocking him. In fact, he looked like someone had slapped him. Arthur laughed, but it was cut short as anger took over Francis' feature. His eyes narrowed, his brow knit and his lips pursed. His fists balled on the counter. Just as suddenly as the anger appeared, it disappeared. There something else that Arthur couldn't read, but did not feel safe.  
"Arthur, have you ever had sex?" the man's voice was even with a hint amusement.  
"Beg pardon?" Arthur asked, cursing inside as a new blush covered his face.  
"You know, sex, making the beast with two backs. Have you known the love of a woman? The touch of a man perhaps?" Francis leaned against the counter, a smirk on his face.  
"I...I…" Arthur stumbled.  
"Non?"  
"It's not as if I didn't have the chance! I'd just busied my time doing better things such as bettering my brain and engaging in intellectual conversations than waste my time having coitus."  
"See! This! This is why! You go around with your pretentious attitude using words like coitus. You think people don't understand you? No, people understand that you think you're smarter and better than they are. Besides, it's glaringly obvious that you haven't been laid. You dress like a grandfather. What is that? A wool sweater over a button down? You're wearing slacks that are too small for you. Your clothes don't fit right at all! You are wasting your potential."  
Arthur glared at him. What did he know? He was Arthur Kirkland which was enough of a reason to claim to be the best. He was the best. He felt the anger boiling in him, his vision only seeing Francis. He slammed his glass against the counter, sending drops flying out.  
Arthur jumped as Francis screamed as though he'd witnessed someone be murdered and held his shirt sleeve. Arthur inquired what was the matter only to be told that he had ruined the man's shirt and that it was real Italian silk. The Englishman laughed. Served him right.  
"Maybe you shouldn't wear such expensive things to work," Arthur chided downing the rest of his drink. He was done here.  
He stood and threw his jacket over his shoulder before turning to leave. He paused when he heard a choked whimper. He turned around shocked to find Francis cuddling his arm, with tears in his eyes. Arthur rolled his eyes and walked back grabbing the man's shirt.  
"I say, you're dramatic! Let's have a look."  
Arthur grabbed Francis' arm and examined the sleeve. He saw a few spots and narrowed his eyes. This man was dramatic. There was very little damage. He threw the man's arm back.  
"Are you bloody serious?" Arthur snapped. "All this whining and drama over a few little spots? Why, I should slap you! If you can afford this, then just go get a new one or take it to get cleaned. I've had it with you. I don't like snobby, rich playboys."  
"This took me a year to buy...It's my favorite shirt..." Francis muttered..  
"Pardon?"  
"I'm not rich! I'm a kindergarten teacher and I have to work here to make my rent! I like to treat myself and show it off like my rich best friends. I like to keep up. Sue me! Mon dieu, this isn't fair!" Francis whined before going off in French.  
Arthur stared at him. He was more pathetic than he originally thought. Part of Arthur felt for him though. He knew what that was like. He hadn't always been the successful writer that he was. Arthur picked up a napkin.  
"Have you got a pen? Silk, you say?"  
Francis nodded and handed him a pen. Arthur took it and wrote something on the napkin before handing it to the man.  
"Follow those instructions and it should be back to new. Terribly sorry. Good day."  
"Merci!"  
Arthur rolled his eyes and walked of the bar. He thought about the events of tonight and chuckled to himself. That Frenchman was insufferable. It was a wonder he even had friends. Who could put up with someone so dramatic and self-centered? He smiled as he reached his home before letting himself in, he laid on the couch and pulled out his phone. He scrolled to Francis' number and saved it. Who knew when he'd think of another insult or want to yell at someone for being annoying or thought of something to argue about? There was nothing better than having good debate.

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 **Thank you for reading! Please review.**


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